Schemes and Scissors
by RebelWriter6561
Summary: Of Siblings and Haircuts...or John Watson, flatmate barber. Loki cuts his hair, with assistance from the ever-helpful John. Avengers/Sherlock crossover


~*~The entire time Loki was onscreen during The Avengers (when I wasn't reduced to a fangirlish puddle) I was staring at Loki's hair. Obviously it was longer, but the way the ends flip out _bug me_. I hate when my hair gets like that, as it's prone to do with little provocation. So, that's where the inspiration for this came from.  
This is part of my imagined AU where Loki escapes the Avengers and moves in with Sherlock and John. He's been with them for a few months now, so here's them male bonding.  
Musical Muse: Avengers Playlist.  
Warnings: Waff, angst, and bare chests. Yes.  
Disclaimer: Why must I admit my dreams are naught? I own nothing but my dreams.

~*~Schemes and Scissors~*~

"Oh. _Loki_." Only one such as John could possibly make such a small expression sound so disappointed and exasperated. As I now have some knowledge of what living with Sherlock is like, I am certain he has had plenty of practice.

Sherlock had started calling me by my real name – not the one I had given to them – quite suddenly, a week after I began my residence in this flat. There was no provocation, no questions asked by anyone, no response from myself aside from allowing to be addressed as such. And it seems Sherlock's habit has rubbed off on John.

I still don't know how that man found out.

I ignore what I just felt in my chest cavity and acknowledge him with a "What?" I don't know what it is that I have done to merit such a greeting, but it must have been something. John just continues looking at me, tea halfway to his mouth.

I take a moment to look about the flat, but I don't see Sherlock. Still in bed, or is out finding things to experiment on? If he were on a case, John would be with him, so that isn't an option. And John does not appear alarmed, like he unconsciously becomes if Sherlock goes off somewhere without notice.

John's still staring at me, or more specifically, my hair. That must be it then. John has already noticed what I have done to my hair. I wondered if he would. Sherlock would notice but never say anything, but John apparently feels the need to comment on it. In a disapproving tone of voice, no less!

Uneasy now, I reach a hand up to feel my still wet locks. I had to reach a few inches higher than I have previously, but that was all that I had done to alter them.

Staring into the mirror after my morning shower – which I treasure, as I am convinced the best thing about this planet is the plumbing – I realized that my hair was simply too long. Asgardians preferred longer hair than what males on this planet seem to favor, but mine was becoming long even by those standards.

So, I had uncovered a pair of scissors from the medicine cabinet and removed several inches all around. I thought it had looked acceptable, but judging from the way he was looking at me, John did not agree.

John clears his throat and puts his tea down gently. "You look…different." Hardly encouraging. My fingers continued to play with the ends, and I am dimly aware that the lengths are not even. I lowered my hand and clasped it with the other.

"It is my usual look." I inform him. "I have let it get out of hand." I think back to previous months, when there were plots to scheme and people to conquer. Personal appearances had barely been important enough to register, and before I knew it, my hair was long and greasy. Living with Sherlock and John gave me time and opportunity to clean up, but I have neglected to. This morning when I looked in the mirror, it finally occurred to me that it was…wrong. The face it framed was not the one I had looked at all my life.

"You cut it yourself?" John asks the obvious question as he heaves himself out of his chair. I nod silently as he appraises my hair with a somewhat critical eye. "It looks…well…would you mind if I even it out for you?"

The question is hesitant and unsure, and unless I am mistaken, it is due to this being unusual conduct between two male flatmates. But then I think of Sherlock and how nothing is usual with him, and it may be just another trait that John has adopted.

I also know that unless my hair has some semblance of order, I will keep altering it myself until I have done irreparable damage to it. I know myself too well.

"You may, John." Only Sherlock could possibly have said it any stiffer. But I am…uneasy as well. If this is a male bonding ritual on this planet, or even just something that has been shared between John and Sherlock, then I feel as if I am intruding upon it. A few months, ago that would have prompted me to refuse vehemently, but things have changed. Now my hair shall as well.

John pulls out the chair he was just sitting on with a harsh noise. "You might want to take your shirt off," he says, before running out of my view – presumably for the scissors – leaving me rather troubled once again. This was not what I had anticipated. Not that I had very high aspirations to begin with, but John ordering me to take my shirt off wasn't one of them.

I pull the long sleeved cotton shirt I strategically acquired from one of my flatmates (John, probably) over my head, knowing that whatever order I had managed to give my hair was immediately ruined. I shake my head and wince as the sharp ends of my hair slap my face. I have the odd thought that it was angry at being neglected, at being improperly cared for.

It's thoughts like those that lead to me being very thankful Sherlock only _seems _like a mind-reader, rather than actually being one.

I hear John returning as I sit gingerly in the chair. He walks swiftly behind me, and, for one paranoid second, I wonder if he holds the weapon he keeps under his bed and will use it on me. Make me face Midgardian justice. A sharp _crack_ makes me jump, but when fabric wisps over my bare shoulders, I realize it is just a sheet John settles it over my shoulders. He ties it off over my right shoulder and smoothes it down carefully, as I am lost in thought about how someone who, despite living with me for months, knows almost nothing about what I have done – except what Sherlock has hinted, which was quite a bit – but must certainly know that I am dangerous. Yet, he still he takes the time to make sure the eventual falling bits of hair do not irritate me.

It is becoming more obvious, as time passes, why Sherlock keeps John around.

John begins combing my hair, pulling it through his fingers and judging the lengths, if his occasional "hmms" can be trusted. I remain still and tell myself to enjoy the contact. It certainly helps my complexion.

"You want this like it was, only shorter?" John's soft voice accompanies his measuring fingers. It agrees with me, so I give my assent and he begins.

The quiet _snip, snip _of the silver scissors fills the flat, pausing only to allow the whisper of the comb to add its notes to the air. My eyes close on their own, and I surrender to the warm hands. When was the last time someone had done this for me? Inhaling sharply, I snap my eyes open once more, focusing on the wall opposite. I don't want to think about that.

A sudden chuckle interrupts the snips, and I tilt my head carefully to peer at John, who wears a little smile. It widens as he catches my eye. "This is a lot easier with someone who's not squirming."

I can only think of one person whose hair John would cut, and he _would_ squirm. "Too long sitting in one place?" I offer. John nods as he gently nudges my head forward.

"I was worried when I finally got to Sherlock's hair that there'd be things living in it. It was a mess!"

"My brother once brought a spider into the house with it hiding in his hair." The words are out, and now they're gone, and now the pain hits. I shouldn't have said that. _I should not have said that_. Because now the memory is there, and I can't push it away. I see the tear tracks down Thor's face, the black spider cupped in my hands, our- _his _mother stroking his hair saying she's just searching for more. I shuffled closer, asking for the same treatment, and she obliged without a second thought. The pain settles under my collarbone and I refuse to let it move.

John's fingers don't pause. "Before my sister started getting her hair cut short, she had it in braids. The things that would get stuck in there…" he trails off, carefully snipping away.

His maneuvering of the scissors isn't what he's handling carefully. His demeanor has changed: carefully casual, calm and sympathetic. He knows how fresh the wounds left by my fake family are – knows the same way Sherlock knew who I was –, so he presses lightly. "'Course, she had to have it cut short, after I cut it for her."

The laugh escapes me. I know he intended that comment to drive it out of me. "Did you cut off one of her plaits?" I can't help but ask, imagining how that prank would play out, how wonderful it would be, not wanting to think of _them _anymore. But they stay in my mind as John chuckles his reply.

"Only a bit of one, but it was so obvious that she had to cut it all. She was so angry at me until she decided she liked it short."

"My brother did something similar to me. On accident." Again, the words are escaping me, as my guard is lowered by memories of a false childhood. "We were practicing, and he pinned me, and the blade slipped and sliced a portion in the back off." The words are quick and clumsy, but they are out of my mouth and in the air with the snips and whispers, so John grabs them to hold. "Sounds like it happened on purpose to me," he says lightly. His hands fluff my hair. We're both quiet for a minute as he examines his handiwork. He finds it acceptable, and begins carefully removing the sheet so that sharp pointy ends of my hair don't latch onto my skin.

"I did it to Mycroft on purpose." John and I are both surprised to look up and see Sherlock leaning in the doorway. His posture says he's comfortable and relaxed, like he's been there a while, but I've learned not to make judgments based on that. Sherlock can adopt a casual pose in seconds. I know John has raised his eyebrow in question, because Sherlock shrugs and mutters, "He had it coming."

My head tilts back in shock – and I feel that lovely sensation of a new haircut in movement – as Sherlock pushes away from the door and begins taking off his shirt. "As long as you have the scissors John, you may as well put them to use. Good luck this time."

I shoot out of the chair before he can sit on me. I snatch my shirt off the table as John returns with the sheet, having emptied it in the wastebasket. When it's comfortably over my body once more, I shake my head again, just for the sensation. A quick dash to the facilities shows that John has done a splendid job. I look…almost back to normal.

"Hurry up John!" I roll my eyes and head back out to the kitchen. A chance to observe a grumpy and motionless Sherlock is not one to be missed.

~*~Why yes, I did just take an opportunity for Loki and Sherlock to be shirtless at the same time. No, no I don't feel bad about it. I feel jealous of John.  
Please review. There will be more.


End file.
